


King of Love and Beauty

by HelaFrankenstein



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-08
Updated: 2016-11-04
Packaged: 2018-07-22 07:46:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7426231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HelaFrankenstein/pseuds/HelaFrankenstein
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Gods have a strange way of working in patterns. Once, a dragon and a wolf fell in love and the whole realm burned for it. However, the rebelling houses were defeated. With King Rhaegar sitting on the Iron Throne, the Starks of Winterfell remain detached from the rest of the Seven Kingdoms, but now another dragon-prince heads north and the history is about to repeat itself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone :) This is going to be rather short AU story. I apologize for my English, it's not my mother tongue. Oh, and I don't own anything. :)

_Winter is coming._

  The words of their house ringed in his ears as he ran through the wolfswood, careful to avoid the branches of the sulking trees. The forest was the thickest here, forcing Robb to slow down - he didn't fancy losing an eye thanks to one of these trees - with the direwolves like shadows on his heels, stealthy and so silent that he had to stop every few minutes to check that they were still here. "Ghost! Grey Wind!" He was quick. He had always been quick, quicker than Theon could ever dream of being and he was proud of it. His feet moved in the heavy, fresh snow with natural ease, yet he was no match for the pair of direwolves. They yipped, playfully snapped at the ends of his furs, rushed past him and disapeared in the woods sooner than he could call them back.

  The snow was a solid white surface, reminding Robb of the white stone floors of the Eyrie. It cracked underneath his boots as he moved, scraping at the thick leather. Small wonder the animals often cut their feet on it's frozen edges. Robb frowned. The winter was coming for real, not just because a bunch of Starks said so. The world was getting colder, the snow fell in big fat flakes and froze into hard masses, the lakes and ponds were covered with thick ice, strong enough to carry a horse. Robb used to run around Wintertown, dragging the sturdiest ones made of carved wood while Bran and Rickon laughed their heads off, holding on the sleds for dear life. They returned to the castle red-faced and half-frozen and Mother scolded them all immediately, but Father only smiled and told Robb that uncle Brandon did drag him and Lyanna on the sleds too.

  The cold northern wind wheezed around his ears when he tried to catch up with the wolves. As he reached his seventeenth name day, Robb found it hard to stay behind the castle's walls. Running came naturally to him. He filled his days with training, lessons of any topic from Maester Luwin, some of them not so necessary for a future Lord, but he would bolt from the castle on the first chance he got. Grey Wind would trail after him and Ghost would eventually join them, not because of his loyalty to his master and the only person brave enough to feed the beast, but because he loved chasing his brother.

   But now he was eighteen and half with the direwolves nowhere to be seen. Robb muttered a curse. He had to go back to the castle - it was starting to get dark and he heard too many of Old Nan's The Others stories to stay alone in the woods after the sunset, especially when winter was coming.

  The direwolves emerged from the wolfswood when he was half the way to the gates of Winterfell. He could see the dark crimson streaks on Ghost's snowy fur, the blood dried around Grey Wind's mouth. Robb rubbed them clean once they were in his chambers. He took a quick bath himself, anxious to get rid of the mud that got in his hair while training. The water was hot. He watched the puffs of steam being colored to shades of orange and red by the fire, surrounded by the liquid heat that slowly seeped into his bones. _Just a little bit warmer,_ he thought, _and you'd boil_. Then he shook his head, droplets flying from his wet curls - if he were Targaryen, he could've bathed in a liquid fire, but Robb was no Targaryen.

  Starks of Winterfell don't bathe in liquid fire. They also don't show up late at the supper. Robb tasted both of it firsthand, as he rushed into the dinning hall, towards the high table where his family was already seated, fixing him with part curious, part annoyed glances. The annoyed part was mostly made of Mother and Sansa. His sister openly blamed Father, and somehow even Robb, for the failing of Robert's rebellion. "Why couldn't you just sit on your ass? When you rebel against someone I thought you do it to win," she once said, "I thought it was for your love to your kidnapped sister, but now it seems you didn't love her enough." Father had never striked any of his daughters, but that day he got dangerously close to breaking that rule. Sansa was just in the age when you take on the whole world. Her best friend, Wayon Poole's daughter, was getting married next moon while Sansa was not. Father hadn't even promised her hand to anyone, simply because no one asked. Well, no one of Sansa's taste.

  The fact that the infamous Robert's Rebellion failed was another thing troubling Ned Stark's peaceful sleep. When Rhaegar defeated Robert Baratheon at Trident, he spared their lives for the sake of peace. His father, Aerys the Mad King, was dead just as the late Lord Stark with his heir Brandon, and after aunt Lyanna died in her blood bed, Rhaegar seemed to adopt certain sort of understanding for Father's sorrow. Ned Stark became the Warden of the North, uncle Benjen joined the Night's Watch and both of them tried to forget about the existence of house Targaryen.

  Except that they couldn't. To forget about King Rhaegar was impossible, because he set himself a goal of uniting the Seven Kingdoms into one, no matter the cost. He wanted to join the greater houses through marriages, wedding Robert Baratheon to the Light of West, Cersei Lannister which turned out like the greatest punishment he could give. He united Mace Tyrell's daughter Margaery with Renly Baratheon, to the Dornish Princess Arianne he promised the Knight of Flowers, Edmure Tully was already expecting a second child with some southron lady, Robyn Arryn was about to take the daughter of Stannis Baratheon as a wife. It all seemed like a maze but in the end everything led to the Targaryens. Aegon, the firstborn son and heir to the Iron Throne, would soon marry Myrcella Baratheon, thus forcing the Lannisters and Baratheons to play nice. Princess Rhaenys was promised to the heir of the Highgarden, ser Willas Tyrell. With Daenerys in Essos, married to some horse lord and Viserys madly fallen in love with a woman in Dorne, the only ones who were left was the Imp, Lord of Casterly Rock after the execution of his father and brother, and unfortunately, the Starks.

  But things were about to change quickly.

  "There was a raven from King's Landing," Father started, cautious with every word, "the King is coming for a visit." Mother paled. That was the moment Robb knew they were doomed - dark wings, dark words. One of his sisters was about to marry the Imp and he will get Theon's sister or even worse, some Lannister. Well, if you could possibly do worse than Yara Greyjoy.

  Father scowled even more when he added: "Prince Jon Targaryen finds it fitting to choose his match here, among you." Robb watched the gesture he made between Sansa and Arya, with heavy heart. The younger one got up from the high table and in front of the whole hall, declared that she'd rather marry the butcher's boy, then stormed out. However, Sansa didn't seem so negative about the whole prospect.

  "But he's your cousin," Robb protested, but Father silenced him: "The Targaryens used to wed brother to sister to keep their bloodline pure." It was sick. Twisted. Robb would rather slice his own throat than touch one of his sisters.

  Sansa was musing over her options and even she saw that they were cornered. The message said that the prince will arrive within a month and there was no way of declining him without starting another war. Their only option was that he won't find Sansa or Arya fitting to be his wife which was highly unrealistic due to Sansa's beauty and Arya's spirit.

  "I heard he's very handsome." Mother's words were meant to enlighten the mood. She almost succeeded. Sansa turned to face her, so she continued: "And strong. Edmure says he's the best swordsman in King's Landing." Since then, Sansa started to feel into the role of future Princess. She walked straighter, dressed more carefully and paid a special attention in her classes. As the days turned into weeks and the preparations came to an end, she even had her handmaid do her hair in a southron style, all to please the dragon-prince she'd never even seen. The day before the Prince's arrival, everyone was fretting around. Mother was lecturing servants, Father checked everything with the steward, Sansa was choosing tomorrow's dress for hours and Robb, as well as Rickon and Bran, was forced to do everything to look presentable. The only thing he was willing to do was to bathe and to shave.

  The fateful morning was colder than ever. As the sun slowly rose on the pale cloudless sky, Robb decided to use the few spare hours he had to take the direwolves on a run.

  As the beasts stalked their prey, he chased after them, praying that the frozen ground would split open and swallow him whole, but the Gods didn't listen. He didn't try to speak to Mother's Seven. The southron gods won't care for his wishes. A question rang in his ears, louder than the tower bells. _Why do you care? You're not going south._ But Sansa will. There was something in his chest, sharp and heavy like if he swallowed a block of ice. When the northmen go south, they die, just like Grandfather and uncle Brandon. Or suffer, the way Lyanna suffered thanks to her love for Rhaegar. Nothing good awaited on any Stark south of the Neck.

  Grey Wind trailed too far, again. Robb called and whistled and Ghost howled and they both walked deeper and deeper into the wolfswood. Robb was growing restless. The frozen snow was sharp, the direwolf could've cut his legs or.. There were so many _ors_ in his head. He didn't watch out. Suddenly, a  stinging pain exploded in his cheek. "Fuck!" He hissed. It was just a scratch but when he touched it, his hand came back bloody. These twigs were dangerous. Robb was glad he didn't lose his eye.

  When he found the stray wolf, the sun was already high on the sky. The cold realization sank in more and more with every step he took - he was going to be late. Mother would skin him.

  It was late in the afternoon when Robb sneaked through the gate. He saw a group of riders carrying the Targaryen sigyl when he made his way over the frozen field, so - _Gods be merciful_ \- he was actually late. The courtyard was full of people - servants, knights and Sers that came with the Prince, the Stark servants and guards and most of all, Lady and Lord Stark with four of their children, in some of their finest clothes.

  Robb stopped and observed the spectacle.

  He could see no Targaryens. There were many silver-haired men, but the color of their mane was caused by their age, not the origin of their house. The three-headed dragon banners were there, next to the direwolf of house Stark, so the dragon-prince already arrived. Robb frowned. There was no carriage, none of the horses seemed to be fancier than the rest. Maybe he's inside the castle.

  Arya spotted him first. She was standing between Sansa and Bran, as if trying to disapear. "Robb!" She called out his name. Suddenly, six pairs of eyes were on him. He was doomed. Well, seven pairs - there was a man standing next to Rickon, probably the dragon-prince's steward, dressed all in fine black furs. The man's gaze burned through him the most. He had to be someone important. Robb swallowed the burning shame and walked over to his family. Compared with them, he looked like the poor relative. "I'm sorry, Father," he hurried out before any of them could ask anything. Then, he turned to the man who seemed so confident in the company of the Warden of the North and his family and added: "You have my apologies, Ser..?"

  He could almost see the blood withdrawing from the faces of his relatives. The man turned to face him properly. He studied Robb for a moment, his expression stern, before adding: "Jon. Jon Targaryen."

  If Robb were a lady, he would faint. He had never realized that fainting was a great option for a situations like this one, when you're too embarrassed to even breathe because you've just probably offended a son of the King. A rather non-Targaryen looking son of the King. With his black curls and equally black eyes, the Prince looked more like a.. Stark. How could you be so blind? He had to get his looks after aunt Lyanna. When he thought about it, Jon Targaryen looked more like a trueborn Stark than him, the heir of Winterfell.

  The dragon-prince's eyes burned holes into him. It was an intense gaze, the Wall would have melted under it, and Robb, although clad into breeches, tunics and thick furs, felt strangely naked under the scanning eyes. The Prince really was very handsome, however, probably pissed off. When the silence stretched for far too long, Robb forced himself to open his mouth. "I-I'm very sorry, Your Grace, I didn't-"

  The Prince's face splitted into a wide grin. "You should have seen yourself!"

  Robb blinked. "What?"

  "Your expression," the smile wasn't going anywhere which confused Robb even more. What was he smiling at? "It was priceless!"

  "Oh, well, Your Grace.."

  "Calm down, Lord Stark, it happens to me all the time. Guess I don't resemble my father that much," he said, still smiling. Father steered the Prince inside before Robb could embarrass himself and his whole house any more. Yes, Mother was definitely going to skin him.

  Robb spent the rest of the afternoon hiding in his chambers. He didn't fancy the Targaryen visit, but this kind of welcoming wasn't exactly what he had in mind, too. Cold and detached was what he thought about, not late and fool.

  The evening feast was great. There were various kinds of roasted meat, pies and Sansa's favorite lemon cakes, northern ale and southron wine alike. People were actually dancing - the last time Robb had seen someone dancing in their great hall was when Rickon was born. No one seemed to care for his previous escapade. Still, he found himself sitting at the very end of the high table. Robb had hoped not to see much of Jon Targaryen and he almost managed to do so, but the Prince kept eyeing him. He was probably still laughing on his embarrassment. Parents engaged him in a small talk about the well-being of King Rhaegar, his siblings and the way of life at the King's court, but Robb didn't listen. On the other hand, Sansa was ecstatic. There was a handsome prince in her hall who wanted to marry her and who just asked her for a dance. She must have felt like in one of the old songs.

  Soon, Robb regretted that he locked Ghost and Grey Wind in his chamber. He was about to retreat there and get them when a hand landed on his shoulder. "You're leaving already?"

  He turned around to see the Prince's relaxed face. There was a trace of something akin to pity which surprised Robb a bit. "Look," the southerner said, his hand still resting on Robb's shoulder, pushing him back on the wooden bench. "I'm sorry. I didn't want to embarass you back in the courtyard. It really happens all the time and believe me or not, I'm not going to skin you because you didn't recognize someone you've never met."

  He sat next to Robb, a goblet of wine in hand.

  "Oh, don't apologize, Your Grace," Robb rushed out, remembering the courtesies Maester Luwin had taught him, "I was late and not very polite."

  "Don't call me Your Grace. That's my father. I'm Jon." It was back, the stare. For a while, he was able to hold it but he had to glance away or he would probably melt. It was something in the way Jon watched him.

  The dragon-prince sat with him for the rest of the evening, asking questions about the Starks and the North. It seemed he really wanted to get to know the land and it's customs and offered a snippets of life on the South for Robb to compare. Robb found him rather a pleasant company. Soon, they fell into an easy conversation. After the death of his mother, Jon was named Targaryen and Rhaegar held him as close as his first two children, if not even more. The King's wife, Elia Martell, pitied the motherless child and while never really forgiving her husband, she treated Jon like one of her own. The Prince even spent some time in Dorne, being fostered by the Martells.

  "I saw you talked to our Prince." Theon grinned. He was sprawled on Robb's bed, a wineskin in hand. "He seems to like you."

  "He's fine," Robb shrugged. He plunged between the furs next to Theon, throwing an arm over his face. "Far better than anyone who asked for Sansa's hand yet."

  Theon lifted his head. "He did ask?"

  "I guess so. Would you drag yourself all the way from King's Landing for nothing?"

  Theon was silent for a while, then he scratched his beard. "We both know I won't. But from what I heard about him, I just thought he's not entirely swinging that way."

  Robb turned to face the ironborn. Theon's grin was the most wicked thing in the North. "Swinging what way?" He asked, feeling like a clueless child just for the fact of asking.

  "Sansa's way."

  Robb lifted his eyebrows. He had the feeling he knew what was Theon talking about, but he wanted to hear it from him. "The girl's way," the ironborn leaned closer and whispered. It was like if he told Robb the biggest secret in the world. "I heard that he doesn't mind to bed men and women alike. After all, he lived with Martells so it would only make sense that he's not going to be some prude. Oberyn Martell also doesn't prefer one gender above the other."

  "So, you're hinting.."

  "That he might find your little blushing hello this afternoon actually cute."

  "I was not blushing!"

  "You were more red than Ros's hair."

  Robb groaned. He buried his face into the furs next to Theon's side and let the drunk ironborn stroke his hair. The wolves were already asleep, curled into one another. Before he fell asleep too, he heard Theon murmur: "Maybe you'll find an unexpected side of our Prince. Just imagine the terror on your Lady Mother's face if she caught her eldest son acting on his own selfish deeds for once..."


	2. Chapter 2

  Acting on his own selfish deeds was something Robb didn't allow himself to do very often. It was not a Stark thing - Father had always taught him to be honorable and just, to care for the well-being of people in the first place, to care for the North.  In the life of the Lord of Winterfell, there wasn't much space for being selfish.

  He broke fast with Theon who got to share his chamber, because his was currently occupied by three or four knights and with Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning and the Prince's sworn shield among them, even the mouthy ironborn chose not to risk anything. He seemed hungover, but apparently not enough to spare Robb from another awkward conversation.

  "So," he started, mouth full of bread, "what happens if the Prince decides he doesn't fancy Sansa that much?"

  Robb shrugged, "He'll most likely pack his things and go back to King's Landing." When he thought about it a little bit more, there wasn't any other option. "But I doubt it."

  Theon's eyebrows rose. "Why?" It seemed that he ironborn woke up in one of his more talkative moods, babbling exclusively about the topic of the royal visit. Robb suspected he enjoyed the discomfort it brought him, especially after the "swinging" thing he mentioned yesterday.

  "This is a political marriage in the first place. How big is the chance that the King will let him come back without a promise of Sansa's hand?"

  "Well, Rhaegar Targaryen started a war to get your aunt. While bloody married. He might have a soft spot for unorthodox relationships." Sometimes, talking to Theon was a best way how to call a headache upon oneself. "Besides, who says it has to be Sansa's hand?"

  Robb snorted: "And who else..?" When the realization hit him, he felt a strong urge to throw something at Theon's face and didn't even try to restrain it. "No! You idiot!"

  Theon wiggled his eyebrows at him. Not even the empty cup hitting his shoulder could erase the expression of smugness while Robb felt his own face turning a shade of crimson. "We have talked only once-"

  "And you blush like a virgin every time I mention him." Before he could open his mouth to say some very snarky remark, Theon's expression grew even smugger, if that was actually possible. The sparks in his eyes told tales of another stupid idea. "Are you still virgin?"

  Robb unceremoniously dropped his piece of bread on the half-empty plate before he could choke on it. Here it was, again.

  "So are you?"

  "Fuck off," he got up and whistled on the pair of direwolves to follow him. Theon asked this exact question once a two months or so, and Robb had seriously enough of it. Plus, it always ended with the ironborn's jokes and him trying to drag Robb to the nearest brothel. "You're colder than the Wall, Stark!" He stormed out of the door, slamming them shut when he collided face-first into someone.

  "Oh, fuck!"

  "Sorry!"

  The Gods had to be laughing at him. Robb stepped back and took in the sight of Jon Targaryen, slightly disheveled with curls sticking in impossible directions probably from his sleep. The dragon-prince put on a sheepish smile before his gaze slid to the pair of direwolves, currently snapping at each other's tails.

  "I'm sorry," Robb muttered before turning on his heels. He started to master the fine art of embarrassing himself in front of this man anytime he could. There was about a hundred of people in the castle and he had to bump into the Prince. Great luck.

  "Wait!" Jon's steps echoed behind him, making him slow down, but he still kept on walking. Turning his back on a guest like this one, a royal son, was a very bad idea. It was almost a rude gesture, but the southerner got none of it. "I was actually looking for you."

  "Oh, were you?" Robb didn't exactly know where he was going, somewhere in the general direction of Maester Luwin, probably. He needed to hear a boring talk about the expenses of this visit to distract himself from the reality of one very handsome Targaryen man currently following him, unfazed by the two full-grown direwolves. Robb heard Rhaegar's sister had three dragons in Essos - compared to them, Ghost and Grey Wind had to look like a puppies.

  "Yeah, I wanted to ask you if you'd fancy to train with me today." There, he had this look of hope and Robb caught himself nodding which turned out like the biggest mistake of the day. Mother was absolutely right, Jon was a great swordsman. Robb felt like the only thing he did was shielding himself from the wicked blows, and even though he managed to beat the dragon-prince three or four times, he probably received more hits than his opponent. They were being watched by a small crowd of people including his own siblings and a group of southron knights. Sansa cheered every time Jon's sword touched him. He should praise the Old Gods and the New that the training swords were blunted.

  "You're doomed," Jon laughed. He was sweaty and his curls stuck to his forehead but he seemed happy. He laughed and teased Robb as they circled around each other and his good mood soon rub off on the northerner, too.

  "You wish," he grinned. It was one surprising hard blow. The dragon-prince's face faltered as the blunt sword fell out of his hand, landing three feet away from him into the fresh morning snow.

  "See? Who's doomed now, Your Grace?" Robb put down his sword, bathing in the feel of victory. He was weary and his side hurt where he received a rather harsh hit, but he felt good. More than good. Being around the youngest Targaryen came somehow natural to him, just like if they were really only a pair of cousins messing around the training yard.

  Jon turned to pick up his sword, forcing Robb to admire the width of his shoulders and the unruly curls of his hair. Suddenly, he turned around and ran full-speed to him. Before he he could do a thing, their bodies collided, the force of it sending both of them to the ground. Robb landed on his back. The snow was hard and the cold seeped into his bones, and there was a foreign weight on top of him, firm and warm. Jon shifted until he sat atop him, strong arms holding him down. Robb felt almost inappropriate. He stared at the laughing Prince whose hair was sprinkled with snow, eyes shining with merriment, and fell his entire body flush.

  The small bubble erupted when Bran shouted: "The snow! Put a snow under his shirt!"

  The crowd cheered once again. Robb struggled to fight off the strong body, pure dread washing over him. He tossed and turned and almost threw the dragon-prince off of him, but then Jon caught his hands in a vice-like grip. Robb howled when a handful of the white mass touched his bare skin. Afterwards, Jon helped him to his feet. When he was firmly standing on the ground again, Robb dared to whine: "That wasn't fair!"

 The dragon-prince turned to face him. There was mere two feet of space between them and Robb was suddenly aware of every inch. A small smile played across the Prince's face when he whispered: "In love and war, everything is fair."

  Back in his chambers, Robb couldn't get the moment out of his head. He tried to occupy himself with a book, he petted the direwolves, cursed the Gods but the damned line wouldn't go away. In love and war - which one was their case? Should he be afraid of the consequences if his sister refused to marry this Prince? No. It wasn't a threat. But they surely weren't in love either, despite of the fact that Robb grew all restless and the warmth pooling in his belly every time he thought about the intense of the moment. No, fool. They were sparring and the Prince just quoted someone. There was nothing hidden behind the sentence.

  Except he felt there was. At the evening feast Jon was watching him again. Robb did his best to avoid the gaze, but he apparently wasn't strong enough. When their eyes met, he could almost see the fire burning beneath them, burning him. Jon motioned him with his cup of wine in a gesture of personal toast, but he didn't react.

  He got up, leaving behind the unfinished plate. As he walked across the great hall, Robb felt many eyes on his skin, but Mother's look of dissaproval and one certain look of something he couldn't decipher.

  The fifth day into the dragon-prince's visit, he was asked to join him on a ride. Sure, Jon needed someone who knew the paths in the woods but it still made him uncomfortable. For the past three days he avoided the Prince as much as he could.   The memory of the firm body on top of his haunted Robb in a way he'd never imagined he would experience. He wanted to punch that face but he also wanted to press his lips against the other's. He wanted to feel the pressure of a body against his own but was afraid to think of anything more. He was the future Lord of Winterfell who was supposed to wed and bed a highborn woman, but Robb Stark suddenly felt like the task was impossible.

  Theon mercilessly mocked him. He'd pitch his voice a notch higher and whined the Prince's name or he'd talk about what would poor Sansa do if she knew her brother was lusting after her future Lord husband. Theon also urged him to meet Jon, to talk to him and perhaps he would end up enjoying himself. He was also the one who recommended Robb as a guide for the ride.

  The day was unexpectedly warm. Robb lacked the usual heavy fur coat, but the Prince wasn't used to the northern temperatures and he was huddled in his own black furs.

  When they rode past the Wintertown, Robb felt the heavy gaze onto himself again, this time growling: "What?"

  He immediately regretted the harshness of his own voice. Jon seemed taken aback by it, pouting. "Nothing, I just noticed your face has healed. Seems like there would be no scar either."

  "My face?" Robb lifted a hand to his cheek. The faint scratch he received in the wolfswood was gone. He hadn't pay it any attention thanks to the turmoil of feelings and ten more new bruises he got from the sword practice with the Prince, but perhaps that's why the Targaryen had stared at him all the time - he was watching the cut on his face, pitying him.

  It came out that Father was occupying their royal guest with the history of house Stark and their achievements, with Jon especially liking Brandon the Builder and the ancient Kings of Winter. Father took him down to the crypt to show him where rested his grandfather and all his ancestors. There was also a statue of Jon's mother, but she rested elsewhere.

  "Father really wanted her to be buried there, too," Robb said when the dragon-prince mentioned it.

  "I know," Jon sighed. "But Father would rather start another war than give her away. You know, he comes to talk to her almost every day, brings her roses. He tried to grow her the blue ones, the kind that grow at Winterfell."

  "Winter roses?" Robb knew the pale blue flowers. The laurel of Queen of Love and Beauty Rhaegar Targaryen gave aunt Lyanna was made of them.

  "Yes. He tried but they died and-" Jon sighed again. A scowl appeared on his face. "They died. I hadn't seen any of them since, until yesterday."

  An uneasy silence fell between them. The path was narrow and they rode slowly.

  Robb rode first. His horse stepped over the roots and stones with ease, familiar with the wolfswood. A river could be heard in a distance. They will have to cross it at some poit, to get back to Winterfell and make a circle, but the water was barely thigh-high so it was no problem for the horses. The forest usually calmed Robb down and today was no different, until Jon spoke again. "Your sister is very beautiful."

  He knew it had to be said. At some point, house Stark had to join house Targaryen. North was the biggest part of the realm and it had to be secured by something far more stronger than simple swearing of fealty to the new King. The words of house Targaryen were "Fire and Blood". For the Starks, blood was thicker than anything. Marriage was the best solution.

  Still, the words cut Robb like a knife. It was foolish, to be saddened by the Prince liking his sister, after all he was supposed to ask for her hand. It was foolish to think about another man the way he thought about Jon Targaryen in the first place.

  "Aye, she is." He said, glad Jon hadn't seen his face. Schooling the tone of his voice was easier than schooling his features.

  They were getting closer to the river, Robb could already see its clear waters with scattered rocks sticking out of. He urged his horse forward, doubling the distance between him and the dragon-prince. The water had to be freezing. Some of it splashed on him as his horse stepped into the river.

  "She's beautiful but I'm not going to marry her."

  Robb jolted.

  He was in the middle of the river when the horse slipped.


	3. Chapter 3

  "Don't you ever do that to me again!"

  Robb looked up but didn't say a thing, only chattered his teeth. The coldness of the river crept into his very core, thanks to the late autumn snow and soaked fabric of his clothes. The day didn’t seem so warm anymore.

  Jon stopped pacing for a while. He gave Robb a slightly bewildered look before unclasping his own furs and throwing them around Stark's shoulders. The fur was heavier than it seemed and its lower half was wet, but it was still far better than his own drenched clothing. "Thanks."

  "We have to get you home. It needs to be fixated," the dragon-prince motioned to his - probably broken - leg. When the horse fell, his left leg got stuck underneath it's body. Robb shuddered. For a brief moment, his entire body was caught under the water. The shock paralised him, combined with the sharp pain shooting up his leg and the thrashing of the poor animal on top of him. The water bubbled around his ears, deafening. He could die. He could die here, Robb thought when the water closed over him. It didn't even had to be deep. He tried to get up, to scramble to his feet, but his leg was stuck under the damned horse. He could hardly feel it.

  His lungs burned.

  Jon jumped off his horse, ran into the river and dragged him to the opposite bank while Robb coughed water. He was right. It was freezing.

  The ride back was painful. Climbing on the horse again was a stupid idea, but walking back to the castle was out of question. Jon refused to let him ride on his own and even though mildly protesting, Robb let himself being almost lifted into the saddle. The Prince climbed beside him, sneaking an arm around his waist and holding him tight in case he'd slide off or fall again. The warmth of another body was comforting. For a while, Robb lost his head and leaned into the faint touch, forgetting that this was the man who was about to marry his sister and he shouldn't fantasize about him in any way. Wait. Jon said something. Before he fell into the river -

  "You said you aren't going to marry Sansa."

  "Mm-hm."

  He wanted to turn his head on him, to see his face. The Prince sounded so calm. "Why?"

  The horse galloped out of the wolfswood and across the field, snow flying away from its hooves. Robb's horse struggled to keep the pace - it hadn't broken anything, but fall on the rocks must have hurt - and the servants from castle came to watch the strange sight. He could see them, a small black dots far away, but as they neared Winterfell their shapes got bigger and clearer. He recognized Jory Cassel with his white whiskers and Hodor, the friendly giant.

  They rode past the gate and into the courtyard. Ser Arthur Dayne was the first one to rush to them, worried about the dragon-prince he was sworn to protect, but Jon Targaryen just waved him away, shouting at someone to get the Maester. He hopped off the horse and pulled Robb down from the saddle, right into his arms. Under a different circumstances, it would be inappropriate and even impossible, but now he was wounded so he clutched at Jon for dear life, more for the feeling of the body beneath all the clothes and his fingertips, than for the pain itself. He let the Prince carry him up the stone stairs and limped into his chambers.

  They shooed his direwolves away. At least, they tried. Robb had to do it himself, otherwise Grey Wind would bite off someone’s arm.

  Mother's face was as pale as the milk of poppy Maester Luwin gave him when he put the broken bone in it's place. It turned out to be uglier than Robb expected, with the bone almost piercing the muscles of his thigh. Maester gave him a cast and forbade him from getting up for next few days. The world got hazy as the milk of poppy blunted his senses. Maester Luwin left. He knew his sisters came to see him, forgetting their bickering for once. He knew about Father and Theon and one of the Targaryen men. The only constant was the dragon-prince himself.

  He sat down on the very edge of his bed and while Robb couldn't understand him nor read his lips, he watched the black haired man talk. He talked for quite a long time, sometimes smiling, sometimes pouting. Whatever he talked about, he had to love it. Robb knew, he could tell from the way his eyes shone.

  He fought against the iron grip of sleep as long as he could, but his lids grew heavier with each passing minute. The Prince saw. When Robb eventually closed his eyes, he could feel fingers stroking through his hair, soft, slow strokes, probably meant to soothe him. He felt the feather matres shift under the weight leaning towards him and suddenly, without as much as a warning and rather unceremoniously, Jon planted a kiss on his forehead.

  "Sleep well, my wolf."

  When Robb woke up again, it was well past dusk. The sky was pitch black and starless. At first, he thought he drank too much wine and it was all just one crazy dream, but as soon as he tried to sit up and his left leg protested, he knew. The dragon-prince rode back with him. Maester Luwin gave him the cast and milk of poppy. Jon Targaryen kissed him.

  _Shit._

  He buried his face into the furs, ready for the ground to swallow him when the door creaked open. Sansa peeked in, probably seeking if he was asleep or not. Robb forced himself to smile at her, feeling a cold sting in his chest. This was his sister and she was so happy to get her prince - it's been her dream since she heard her first fairy tale - but he was ruining it. If she knew, she would never forgive him.

  She brought him some food and let in his direwolves. Grey Wind was yipping, whining and demanding to be petted, while Ghost just laid there and watched him, as if the beast could see right into his soul.

  Sansa's voice was soft and her tone comforting. She sat on the corner of his bed, talking about her time with the dragon-prince and made him sound like a perfect man - kind, clever, gentle and so handsome. Robb fought the urge to shout at her to wake up. His leg hurt and the skin was itchy underneath the plaster. The anger that bubbled deep inside his chest just few hours ago, before the godsdamned ride, was rising and he had to grit his teeth to keep his mouth shut. Sansa lifted her blue eyes from the furs, hesitating from whatever she was about to say.

  "I still can't believe it," she started. "I thought I would end up stuck here, in North, and marry some Umber or Karstark. Now, with Jon around, I feel like in a dream."

  Robb raised his eyebrows: "Jon?" The familiarity in her voice made him cringe. Gods, he was damned. Jealous of his own sister. He had no right to feel this angry, just as he had no right to the dragon-prince's heart. But Jon didn't want Sansa, at least he said so, so why- Robb realized that his question remained without answer. He'll ask again.

  Sansa was too absorbed into a romance of her own to hear the venom dripping off his voice. She continued to talk. "Yes, Jon. He told me to call him Jon since we're about to get married. And you know what? He wants us to go see the tourney!"

  So he didn't tell them yet. That was only logical, since he was still here, but if he told them Sansa would be too offended and he would have to leave and Robb would never see him again. He was lost. Lying there, staring at the ceiling, torn between anger and sadness while Sansa talked about the great tourney Robert Baratheon was hosting at Storm's End to celebrate the wedding of his daughter and Jon's brother, the crown prince Aegon.

  After Sansa left, he was alone until Theon decided to stumble back into his chambers. He was clearly drunk and smelled like a whore. The ironborn took one of the furs and slept on the ground that night, afraid he'd hurt Robb's leg even more. Even though it had to be uncomfortable, Robb was grateful for the gesture.

His sleep was restless. He tossed and turned, sweat making the soft fabric of sleeping tunic stick to his torso. In his dreams, Robb lied on a bed with no furs, a southron bed with sheets of silky fabric, and the beads of sweat running down his chest were the only thing he was wearing. There was another man - Robb couldn't see his face, but he knew who it was anyway, there was only one - as naked as he came into this world. Their legs were tangled and mouths collided into something akin to a kiss, but much wilder, more harsh. He felt the other's teeth bruising his lips, then continuing its way down, leaving a trail of small playful bites down his chest until the man reached his hips. He felt devoured alive. Once he was told dragons are made of fire. Back then, he probably laughed but now he believed every single word as his skin burned everywhere it touched the skin of his own young dragon.

  It was a feverish dream and Robb woke up so drenched in his own sweat he forced Theon to help him bathe.

  "You're losing it," remarked the ironborn as he handed Robb a fresh clothes. "Even Sansa says you're acting weird."

  He was right. Robb was losing it. He was losing himself into the dark carefree southron man and wanted even more. More of what, he didn't know, but he craved it deep inside his core.

  "It's going to be alright," he forced out. The rational side of him didn't die yet. "They're going to leave for the tourney and I'm going to stay here."

  "No, you're not. He wants you to be there."

  "Father?"

  "No. The Prince."

  "Why?"

  "I think you know very well what is going on here," Theon growled. He was angry, Robb could tell from the way his sharp eyes darkened and his mouth set. "Its great you do something for yourself once, Robb Stark, but please, _please_ , don't do anything that might get you hurt." Then, his tone softened and Robb caught a glimpse of a bittersweet smile. "Look, you're like a brother to me and I don't wanna fight a fucking rebellion because you ended up like your aunt."

  "I will not end up like her," he forced on a quick smile, hoping to calm his friend down a little. "I'm the heir of house Stark, he can't kidnap me and lock me in a tower."

  It didn't work - Theon's frown grew only bigger. "He's Targaryen," the ironborn deadpanned, like it was an explanation to everything. "They don't give a shit."

  The next morning assured Robb his friend was right.

 


End file.
